“Dread lord,” said Osgood; “she was the betrothed of Harold; but, as within the degrees of kin, the Church forbade their union, and they obeyed the Church.”
Out from the banquet-throng stepped Mallet de Graville. “O my liege,” said he “thou hast promised me lands and earldom; instead of these gifts undeserved, bestow on me the right to bury and to honour the remains of Harold; today I took from him my life, let me give all I can in return—a grave!”
William paused, but the sentiment of the assembly, so clearly pronounced, and, it may be, his own better nature, which, ere polluted by plotting craft, and hardened by despotic ire, was magnanimous and heroic, moved and won him. “Lady,” said he, gently, “thou appealest not in vain to Norman knighthood: thy rebuke was just; and I repent me of a hasty impulse. Mallet de Graville, thy prayer is granted; to thy choice be consigned the place of burial, to thy care the funeral rites of him whose soul hath passed out of human judgment.”
The feast was over; William the Conqueror slept on his couch, and round him slumbered his Norman knights, dreaming of baronies to come; and still the torches moved dismally to and fro the waste of death, and through the hush of night was heard near and far the wail of women.
Accompanied by the brothers of Waltham, and attended by link-bearers, Mallet de Graville was yet engaged in the search for the royal dead—and the search was vain. Deeper and stiller, the autumnal moon rose to its melancholy noon, and lent its ghastly aid to the glare of the redder lights. But, on leaving the pavilion, they had missed Edith; she had gone from them alone, and was lost in that dreadful wilderness. And Ailred said despondingly:
“Perchance we may already have seen the corpse we search for, and not recognised it; for the face may be mutilated with wounds. And therefore it is that Saxon wives and mothers haunt our battle-fields, discovering those they search by signs not known without the household.” [276]
“Ay,” said the Norman, “I comprehend thee, by the letter or device, in which, according to your customs, your warriors impress on their own forms some token of affection, or some fancied charm against ill.”
“It is so,” answered the monk; “wherefore I grieve that we have lost the guidance of the maid.”
While thus conversing, they had retraced their steps, almost in despair, towards the Duke’s pavilion.
“See,” said De Graville, “how near yon lonely woman hath come to the tent of the Duke—yea, to the foot of the holy gonfanon, which supplanted ‘the Fighting Man!’ pardex, my heart bleeds to see her striving to lift up the heavy dead!”